


Making Your Own Canon

by mattzerella_sticks, Psynatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archive of our Own - Freeform, Bacon, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel and Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Characters Writing Fanfiction, Crack Treated Seriously, Day At The Beach, Dean Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Family Bonding, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Fluff and Humor, Free Will, Happy Winchesters (Supernatural), Jack Has his Powers, M/M, Meta, Nail Polish, Or Is It?, Picnics, Post-Episode: s14e14 Ouroboros, Recovery, Sam Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Skateboarding, Slang, Tenderness, Writer Jack Kline, tfwbigbang2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 06:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psynatural/pseuds/Psynatural
Summary: With Michael defeated and his powers back, Jack has a lot of time to fill when he's not worrying about his fathers or whether or not he has a soul. After being tasked by Castiel to find a hobby, Jack decides to settle on writing. Writing fanfiction to be exact. Using his life and his fathers as his inspiration, Jack begins telling tales of happier times.And then the strangest thing happens - his fathers get happier. Jack shouldn't allow this rare feeling to raise his suspicions, instead savoring the smiles and laughter. But when the sense of deja vu becomes too overwhelming Jack realizes that something is amiss.Could it have anything to do with his hobby?





	Making Your Own Canon

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! [Mattzerella_sticks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks) (author) here back at it again with another challenge lol. This time for Team Free Will Big Bang 2019 - although you might recognize my amazing partner [Psynatural](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psynatural/pseuds/Psynatural) (artist) from Destiel Reverse Bang of this year.
> 
> Teamed up once more to bring you an awesome fic that'll be sure to leave you in stitches! With art that you'll want to stare at for hours!! [See the Art Masterpost here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759840)
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!!!

Being a nephilim again unsettles Jack. He’s unsure if it’s because of the extraordinarily long time he spent as human, the fact that the grace burning within was not originally his own, or how Jack feels a strange emptiness inside. Maybe a combination of all three. It doesn’t matter the cause, though, because he worries more about the effect on him _now_.

He was mortal, once. Part of humanity; sharing in their highs and lows. Could enjoy the taste of pie or the warmth of a nice blanket even if his health deteriorated and the clock ticked ever closer to his death. With his status returned Jack feels removed from the collective. Like consuming Michael’s grace was the same as taking a roll of cellophane and stretching it over and over his face until everything became an unfamiliar blur.

His return to power would be less worrisome if one of his fathers could coax him down from the ledge he hiked himself up on. After Michael's retreat they found licking their wounds better than anything else.

Sam spends more of his time out of the Bunker than inside it. When he returns he hides away in his room until the next journey away. Dean also doesn't travel far from his bed, recovering. Being Michael’s prison took a toll on his body he was unprepared to deal with now that the archangel no longer resides inside. The times he was roaming the halls, Dean moved so sluggishly he could barely make it to the kitchen. And Castiel, the outlier among the three, locked himself into a role rather a place. His hands hover between the Winchester brothers, trying his best to heal them from the scars of Michael's wrath. He took charge of cleaning the Bunker, making sure the boys were fed with whatever Castiel could find. Granted most of what was made stayed on the plate to turn stale. Castiel focused so much on the others that most days Jack caught him zipping between their rooms. 

But today he found his father during a lull. Castiel sits in the library with a book open in front of him. Although for how heavily he stares into it Jack doubts Castiel reads it. His slouch, unnatural heavy eye bags, and tapping finger communicates clearly how his mind is focused on other things.

A faint voice in the background of Jack’s mind tells him to leave Castiel be, that it would be rude to disturb him when he so clearly needs this time to rest. The words were soft and practically a whisper, and couldn’t overpower the strong desire to talk. Jack moves into the room, drawing Castiel’s attention.

“Jack,” Castiel greets him; a deep, exhausted rumble purring from his chest. “How are you?”

“A little concerned, to be honest.”

Castiel frowns, closing his book. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m feeling… lost.”

“Lost? Can you explain?”

“Well,” Jack sighs, sitting across from him, “It’s like this…” He tells Castiel all that’s been on his mind in these past few days, detailing the confusion churning in his gut. “And I don’t know how to make everything return to normal… if I even can. It’s not like before when I had _ my _ grace. To me, it’s as if I was reborn after consuming Michael.”

“That is unfortunate,” Castiel agrees, “I’ll admit I had my worries after… taking down Michael must have required a serious amount of power, and with how much of your soul was left prior…”

“Do I… do I still have a soul?”

“I think you would be the best judge for that, Jack,” he sighs, “But seeing how you asked the question… it’s safe to say not a great deal of it is left.”

Jack frowns. As Castiel tells him this, Jack searches within himself to find his soul. While he cannot find it, he does now understand the cold absence lodged in his chest. “Is it… bad, that I don’t have a soul?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Castiel starts, hands lain flat against the table, “It is worrisome, yes, given we don’t know what a nephilim without a soul can do. But since we’re aware that this is a possibility we can monitor appropriately and handle it.”

“Handle it how?”

“Well I… I wouldn’t even begin to think how,” he continues, “I think that might require a discussion between me and…” Castiel glances out towards the hallway, where Sam and Dean’s rooms are. “But maybe… you said you felt disconnected from humanity as of late?”

Jack nods.

“I remember feeling like how you described when I chose to take on grace again and become an angel. There were things I missed… that I couldn’t experience without a soul,” Castiel tells him, “However there were also other things that I could still do even if I had no soul. I leaned into them – leaned into _ humanity _ – and found my own way to connect with them. Because you may be missing a soul doesn’t mean you no longer have to be a part of the world.”

He frowns, skewing his head to the side as he often saw his father do. “How do I ‘lean in’?”

Castiel steeples his fingers and taps at his chin. “There are many different solutions… given the limitations we’re working with, however, your options are limited. Although maybe a _ hobby _ would be helpful?”

“A hobby?”

“A task, repetitive in nature, that you enjoy doing,” Castiel explains, “From what I’ve seen and learned, sharing interests is a profound way of connecting with others. Find something you like to do –“

“I like to hunt –“

“_ Other _ than hunting,” Castiel sighs, “It should be fun.”

“What do you think is fun?”

“Well… Sam enjoys learning about murderers, and Dean has his music –“

“But what about _ you _?”

“Television. I’ve been informed, though, that watching too much of it might be… _ troubling _.”

Jack nods, standing. “Okay… thank you, Castiel, for the advice.”

“It’s no problem at all Jack.”

He pauses, squeezing the back of the chair for strength. Pulling from the script of an old memory, Jack asks Castiel, “Are _ you _ okay?”

Castiel hums, rubbing at his jaw. “I’m better than most people,” he says, “I just wish…” He offers Jack a weak smile, opening his book again. “You don’t have to worry about me, that’s my job. You focus on finding a hobby... that's more important.”

Dismissed, Jack returns to his room.

The next few hours pass uneventfully, with Jack staring at his open laptop. Swiping the mouse pad when the screen goes black and only getting up to fetch the charger once it runs out of power.

He opened it ready to research the perfect hobby for him. His problem came in where to begin. Instinctually, Jack wanted to type in the problem at hand. ‘Nephilims without souls looking for hobbies’ was a query with no results. Stuck on square one, Jack had only the Google homepage as company. The face of an artist or scientist celebrating their birthday waits for Jack to begin.

“Maybe I’m overthinking it,” Jack finally says, “What did Castiel say… hobbies are supposed to be enjoyable. What do I enjoy…?”

Immediately he thinks of his family. He remembers the warmth that used to envelop him whenever thoughts of them crossed his mind, and takes comfort in the phantom blanket that weighs in his mind. Jack types ‘Winchesters’ into the search bar.

Then, against Castiel’s wishes, he adds in ‘hunting’ because it’s not limited to monsters. Sam made mention of how humans would hunt animals after an eventful stop at a random gas station. Jack stared intensely at a deer tied to the roof of an SUV, wondering why someone would kill a noble creature. He explained the concept to Jack with an uncomfortable expression painted across his face, made more so when Jack trimmed the tiniest bit of his soul to bring the deer to life. Sam quickly hurried them away as the deer struggled against its rope chains.

And Dean, with a stack of coupons in hand, showed Jack the merits of sniffing for bargains with the same ferocity served to find demons, vampires, and other monsters.

Feeling satisfied with his filled search bar, Jack hits enter and stumbles down a rabbit hole of his own design.

The first website seemed innocent enough, so he clicks it. Reading, Jack starts noticing how similar the details within matched what he knew of Sam and Dean. Jack scrolled up towards the top and found the ‘About’ section.

_ Carver Edlund’s ‘Supernatural’ series depicts the adventures of hunters Sam and Dean Winchester, criss-crossing the country in their 1967 Chevy Impala while saving people and hunting monsters – otherwise known as the ‘family business’. From vampires to werewolves, demons to angels, there is nothing that can stop these brothers. _

What Jack found was a dedication to the works of the now deceased Carver Edlund – a gospel to his fathers’ lives. It was scary. Not only because of how intimate some of the scenes captured were, but because Jack broke one of Dean's cardinal rules after he handed over the freshly conned laptop. Never read the comments section.

They trailed on, seemingly endless.

“Dean girls… Sam girls…” Jack squints through the paragraphs of fans detailing their support for the Winchesters. Fans who thought of their family as nothing more than characters in a book or urban legends, fighting over interpretations. Some comments had pictures attached that if he were still human would turn Jack's stomach. Reflecting on the explicit imagery Jack doesn't know whether to be glad or horrified that he can work up a fierce blush.

Scrolling past a strange sketch of Dean and Sam Jack finds an escape. HunterGirl221b included a link to a website Jack, without thinking, clicks on. He jumps over to a strangely colored page filled with even more discussion about the Winchesters. Instead of chapters with impressive comments the new site trades in mostly pictures. The few written posts were similar to the comments where anonymous strangers spat at each other over who was right and wrong. Why that mattered Jack had no idea since nearly everything he's read from these 'fans' is untrue. Jack frowns at how crude one of the people acted, writing very meanly about the person who responded last. “That’s not very nice.”

He doesn't linger there. Jack’s eye catches a short story with his fathers as the main characters. Different from Carver’s novels, it isn't more than one thousand words. His interests piqued when he read the summary. Instead of dealing with monsters the boys were more concerned over motel lodgings. Captivated by the simplicity Jack digs into the story. Before he could get to the end it cuts off. Luckily, below the last paragraph, is a link to ‘_read more_’. Clicking again, Jack left that website behind for something more magical. Somewhere he could grow roots in and enjoy.

In this magical website, thousands of stories wait for him that differ from the inciting story. They are all written by different people, about countless subjects. While the list of categories made him dizzy, Jack decides to stick with what he knows: the stories starring Sam, Dean, and Castiel.

“Hobbies are about what you find interesting,” he reminds himself, “And my fathers are the most interesting people in the world…”

The millions of authors from around the world agreed with him.

Jack settles in, dragging his laptop closer to his face across his chest. He learns about fanfiction… and finds his hobby. 

* * *

He feels like he could be doing more. As much as Jack enjoys reading all the different stories posted to this website, the emptiness within himself persists. Throughout the aspirational brotherly stories and especially during angst-ridden codas - the absence of feeling made itself known.

Jack knew that these works were supposed to evoke some type of response, but all he saw within them were ways in which fantasy differed from the reality he knew. Dean and Sam had never become mermaids, gone to space, or met someone by the name of Sherlock Holmes. They would have mentioned it to Jack, Dean especially given how frequently he discussed killing Hitler. Although after some dedicated online research Jack could understand why Dean wouldn't discuss those adventures. Their personalities would definitely clash.

Passively reading lost its flavor, and the worry crept back into Jack’s periphery. The idea of ‘fanfiction’ still fascinated him, but he needed to find another way to enjoy the outlet.

Near the end of one story - a special one where Castiel was included, an unfortunate oversight in a good chunk of posts - he noticed a small note. The author included it after finishing their story, and Jack would have been remiss if he ignored it.

_ A/N Thank you so much for reading this!!! I debated whether or not to post this but after some words of encouragement from my dear friend and beta _ _ missusSamW _ _ I decided to go ahead and share this with you. Please be kind as it’s my first fic ever!! _

_The more kudos I get the faster I write my next fic!_

“Writing…” Jack pushes his laptop away. The thought sparks a feeling inside him, the first he’s had since consuming Michael’s grace. It’s nothing too powerful, but the curiosity takes up some space that was currently uninhabited. “Writing,” he repeats, “Writing might be… _ fun _.”

Staring at the screen, Jack weighs against it whether or not becoming an author would be wise. Then, when the laptop doesn’t answer him, he turns to his snake.

“Felix,” he asks, “Should I be a writer?” Felix slithers around as if he hadn’t heard him. “Hiss once for yes, twice for no.” Jack strains to hear Felix’s response. Normally one to voice his disapproval the snake chose to sit in silence. Like a conscious objector. Finally Felix offers him one long, unbroken _ ‘hiss’ _.

Jack smiles leaning back onto his bed. “Thank you. I was hoping that would be your answer.”

Felix hisses again. Venomous sounding, like a snarky retort.

“I still count that as a ‘yes’.”

Returning to his laptop, Jack begins the process of becoming a writer. He scans through his history to find the community website from days prior. It was the best place to start, he figured, given when he was on it there was a collection of different types of posts.

Two hours later Jack realizes the help he sought wasn't there. Everyone talks in a code Jack doesn't have the drive to pick apart. At some point he might need to, especially if these were the humans he wants to connect with. He'll have time later. What he wants to do, though, is write.

Thankfully he saw one small blip in the sea of chaos that gave him some inspiration.

_ Write what you know and about what you want to see in the world. _

“What I want to see?” Jack reads, tapping at the keyboard. “What _ do _ I want to see?”

He already knew what he would be writing about - his fathers were a great source of inspiration. But what would he like to see his fathers doing? This weighs on his mind, a small headache forming at the base of his skull. When he presses against it, kneading it, an image springs to mind. Like Athena from Zeus's head. Immediately he sees all four of them seated around a table playing a board game, laughing and spending time with each other. “Happy,” he decides, “that is how I want to see them.”

With a loose plan in place, Jack opens up a Word document and affirms his goal of writing a story.

A goal that seems out of reach on a golden pedestal, he fears. “Writing is much harder than I realized.” Jack blinks at the obnoxious white glowing from the blank page. Countless hours passed between when Jack found his confidence and now, when it's far gone. Interspersed were moments where Jack typed a few sentences. Only he deleted them seconds later as they made no sense.

“Dean sat in the kitchen with a piece of pie in front of him. He bit into it with a smile, savoring the flavors. Castiel walked in and said, ‘Are you now better Dean?’ Dean replies… no, no, no!” Slamming down on the backspace Jack cuts the stems of his flowers before their roots could settle.

Scrubbing his hands down his face, Jack collapses onto his bed with a sigh. “Why couldn’t there have been more tips on how to do this?”

Jack has a story he wanted to write, but can't figure out how to translate it from his thoughts onto the page. His stomach clenches, a seed of doubt wiggling inside that maybe writing was impossible because of his soullessness. That the missing tip he couldn't find said only people with souls filling the spaces between their ribs could breathe life into words.

As soon as the thought snuck in he quickly banishes it. “No,” he says, “I can do this. I… I might need to start smaller, though.”

Reinvigorated, Jack shoots up and returns to his laptop. He chooses to write about only one of his three fathers, picking who he wishes to see happy the most.

It flows much easier after he simplifies his story. He pushes past the block clogging his creative visions and lets the faucet of his imagination flood the page. Jack knows he is on the right track by the delicious burn crackling behind his eyes. Each added word like another piece of kindle thrown onto the fire.

He finishes in less than a half-hour. The story fits on one page, a very quick piece of fiction. Jack re-reads it. Beaming with pride, Jack's cheeks straining from the size.

“Funny,” he chuckles, “I wanted to see the others happy but I somehow made _ myself _ happy… Is this what hobbies are all about? I should probably ask Castiel.”

Saving his work, Jack puts off the idea of posting his story to find his father. Last he saw of Castiel - which was days ago - he was in the library. He starts there. Jack jumps from his room to the library, calling for his angelic father. While Castiel was somewhere else, it wasn't empty. Sam stood at one of the shelves in a weird daze, fingers trailing along the spines of a row of books.

Jack stares at him in awe, jaw slacked. “Sam?” he asks, “Sam what are you…”

Sam turns to him, fog somewhat lifting. “Something wrong Jack?”

He shakes his head, moving closer. “Why are you in the library?”

Shrugging, Sam gestures to the shelves. “Wanted something to read.”

“Yes, but… in here? I thought you…” Jack trails off, unwilling to bring up the massacre. The scattered bodies - of their _friends_ \- found in this very room. While Dean and Castiel cleaned up Sam stood in the doorway and watched with a detached interest. When Dean accidentally dropped a body, curling in on himself from exhaustion, Sam snapped back into awareness. He helped Dean flee the room and hadn't been there since. Jack figured the sight was burned in Sam's mind so savagely he could hardly set a food inside.

Which is why seeing him here unnerves Jack.

“I wanted to read,” Sam repeats, “Reading makes me happy and… I don’t know. Somehow the library didn’t feel as scary as it did before. I used to love being in here… why should I let Michael take that away from me after everything else? He’s gone…” Sam grabs a book, smiling. “This looks interesting.”

Walking over to the table, ignorant to Jack’s obvious gawking, he takes a seat. “So,” he continues, flipping the book open, “why are you here Jack?”

“I… I was…” he swallows, “I was looking for Cas?”

“I think I saw him in the laundry room.”

“...Thank you. Enjoy your… book.”

“You know what?” Sam glances up, grinning boyishly, “I will.” That said, Sam falls under the spell of the words in his book. Jack wastes no time hurrying out of the room. Instead of heading towards Castiel he flutters towards his room and slumps onto his bed.

“What a strange thing,” he says to Felix, “Sam in the library… I wonder what happened that made him want to go in there after…”

His gaze catches his laptop. “I missed a lot of progress because of you,” he huffs, snatching it from his bed, “Next time I write I’ll do it somewhere else, that way I won’t miss any more important breakthroughs with my family.”

There’s a small tickle in the back of his mind, like something tries to get his attention. Like string brushing up against him, asking for his help in connecting two points. He ignores it, deeming it unimportant. Sam reads, and he’s happy.

Jack writes, and he’s happy.

* * *

The past few weeks were wonderful for Jack. Having a hobby made a huge difference in his life, providing the sense of connection he sorely lacked. Especially since he wasn’t allowed to leave the Bunker without supervision. His fathers’ worry for him was an obstacle the Internet was able to overcome.

After posting his first work Jack spent the next few hours refreshing his page, watching the number of kudos to see them grow. By the time Castiel came to check in on him he had five of them - two from people with accounts and three guests.

He knew his appearance was strange to Castiel, but thankfully he forwent questions and instead dropped off food for Felix.

Once the door shut, Jack returned to his laptop with another idea for a story. Choosing Castiel for a main character, he started writing another short ficlet imagining his father taking time off for himself. Setting down in the Cave and watching a movie or a show. Maybe with a bowl of popcorn and a nice, warm blanket around his shoulders. He worked tirelessly to ensure Jack, Sam, and Dean managed through the days and the moments he had for himself were never truly relaxing.

This story was as short as the one he wrote previously, barely managing nine hundred words. It didn’t matter, though, since he captured the wholesome comfort he wanted.

“Although Dean might be feeling left out,” he realizes, “One story about Sam… one about Cas… I should write one for him, too.”

He quickly fell into a niche in terms of his writing. Jack’s stories would star one or two - or maybe all - of his fathers in a variety of family friendly scenes. In his world the trauma left by Michael’s siege faded, and the phantom pains from all they lost didn’t sting quite like they did when the wounds were first struck. Sam smiled easier, Dean walked with a bounce in his step, and Castiel’s shoulders dropped most of the weight he rested on them.

As his story count grew, so did his fanbase. People started commenting on his stories:

_ This is so cuteeee!!!!! Love this AU where Dean said yes to Michael! _

_ Sam is so soft… he’s been through too much! D: D: _

_ I love a Winchester family that heals together! Infinite kudos! _

However a few comments left a sour taste in his mouth. Readers who found him to be a ‘self-inserted character’. That Jack, himself, doesn’t exist because in no point in the Winchester gospels do any of them have children. He tried to explain his presence, commenting to Wincessister67 that none of the men were biologically his father, but rather Lucifer was his dad and the Winchesters adopted him.

The following comments had him deciding to delete and ignore similar messages in the future.

Besides all the good joy his writings brought him, the rest of his happiness stemmed from how the Bunker and its residents finally drove onto the road to recovery. The atmosphere inside his home lightened considerably with each passing day, putting the memory of when Michael escaped Dean's mind farther and farther in their rearview mirror.

After each story, while Jack recovered from his creative burn, he would find one of his fathers in their home to pass the time. Instead of moping around, shuffling with the heavy chains of their hurt and sadness, they walked with good cheer as if someone scrubbed their slates clean. No longer did they haunt the Bunker's walls. They lived and enjoyed each beat of their hearts. At some point, Jack guesses, they found the keys and broke free from the depressing grayness. He couldn't be prouder.

Sam barely spent time in his room anymore save for when he needed sleep. The library became his central hub of activity once more, and all the times he wasn’t reading he caught up on the exercise he put off. Dashing off to jog his well-worn trail or stretching against the walls, he vibrated with a tremendous spirit.

Dean glowed with a youthful energy too that, even before Michael, didn't present itself. He glimpsed some of it in Tombstone, but the hunt there snuffed it out before Jack could fully understand this part in him. Now Dean fully embraced his newfound sense of wonder, going for long drives and cooking large meals for everyone. He dragged his records out and played them in the main room, dancing hilariously as they watched. A few times he managed to tease Castiel enough to join him. The two swaying around each other, easily drifting closer.

Castiel smiled more, too, and not the tired grin he usually tacked on. It was obvious that he needn’t worry so much since Michael’s hold on his family faded. Instead he set aside parts of the day to do more for him. One day Jack spied him returning from a long walk through the town carrying a tray of plants.

“I figured they would be nice to have in my room,” he said, “Looking around I really don’t have anything that makes it different from other unused rooms… I want to change that.”

Jack agreed with him, and after writing a short little piece where Castiel decorates his room he and his father went on a shopping trip that ended with two dripping ice cream cones and a packed trunk.

Their day in town felt like being in the sun after weeks of cloudy days. It lifted his spirits so much Jack wanted to have a similar outing almost immediately. But the good weather wasn’t a long reprieve, and any opportunity he saw for all four of them to do something together was rebuffed.

Not deterred, Jack figured that if he couldn’t have what he wanted he would give it to himself through the written word. A story where his family hops into the Impala and drives. Spending the day together because family trumped whatever errands needed running or chores piling up. Although halfway through writing it he realizes the story can’t end with them still in the car. The next logical step would involve them stopping at a destination. If only he had a globe he could spin, or a map of the United States to toss a dart at. Dean would ground him if he noticed a dent in the giant map in the Bunker's main room. So Jack relies on all he learned so far.

Jack considers a movie theater, but trashes the idea almost immediately. “We have Netflix,” he says, “why would we go out to the theaters?” Then he thinks about sharing a meal, reminded of all the times they sat in diners. “But we do that all the time… I want it to be _special_.” Not willing to throw away the food element, he tries to fit it into different situations. A high-class venue would be uncomfortable for all of them and eating drive-thru in the car would be disrespectful to her.

However, if they took food out of the car and ate it outside, that might make things better.

“A picnic…” he mumbles to himself, “Yeah, yeah… I’d like that…”

The burn flickers to life behind his eyes and Jack understands how perfect a picnic story is. The fire of creativity that roared with each amazing plot point, words fueling him forward. He figured writing would feel wet from how many instances people spoke about 'juices flowing'. Except when he finished writing Jack never felt more dry. 

Fingers type, speeding across the keyboard at an inhuman pace. Jack adds to the driving scene and pulls from memories of different times where his fathers relaxed. Each patch might not have made sense on its own, but he sewed it all together into a functional quilt.

Although as he checks his quilt for any rips or unfinished hems, the strangest thing happens. A courteous knock precedes Dean barging into his room. He smiles at Jack with half-lidded eyes, “Hey, Jack, what are you doing?”

He glances up from his story, frowning. “...Reading?”

“Well, come on, you can do that later,” Dean tells him, “We’re going out!”

“Out?” Jack parrots, “Out where?”

“Just out,” he shrugs, “It’s beautiful and… I don’t know, it’d be dumb to spend it locked down in here. Sam and Cas are waiting…” Dean darts out of the room without waiting for a response, trusting Jack to follow.

Which he does after saving his work. Slowly making his way down towards the garage, too confused to fly there, he catches the excited voices of his fathers talking over one another.

“Hope you didn’t pack just veggies -”

“Relax, Dean, everything in here tastes good -”

“Sam -”

“Dean, I made sure that Sam made sandwiches for you.”

“And he snuck in pie. Oh don’t think I didn’t see that!”

“You treat me so much better than he does, Cas, what would I do without you?”

“Let’s not think about that now -”

Jack watches the three of them from the entryway in a daze. They hold themselves at an ease completely foreign to him. From what Jack spies in no way does the darkness of their past cling to their spirits, instead all shucked away by this familial moment. As if none of the men have ever seen the life drain from a person's life numerous times. In this space of carved out normalcy, monsters don't exist. He observes, too curious to see where the conversation goes to move.

Castiel spots him first, ending his study. “Jack!” he calls to him, “There you are!”

Noticed, he shuffles further into the room and towards the group. “Yes, Dean said we were going out…?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “Figured we haven’t done anything together in a while and… y’know, it just felt right for a picnic.” He dangles the wicker basket between them, Jack’s eyes widening at the sight.

“Picnic?”

“This would be your first picnic right Jack?” Dean chuckles, elbowing him lightly in the ribs, “Maybe we should bring a camera, put it in a scrapbook?”

“Nonsense, Dean,” Castiel hushes him, “Stop joking and get the car started or I’ll eat all the pie myself.”

Dean pouts but does as asked. Then without even consulting Jack, Sam and Castiel take the backseat. “What?” Jack asks, stopping Sam, “Why are you going back there?”

“Because you get shotgun?” Sam scoffs, nonplussed, “Best kid, best seat.” He doesn’t give Jack the time to process that, closing the door on him.

Mind reeling, Jack wonders over the oddity of the three men in the car. They decided, in a burst of spontaneity, to have a picnic. The very same thing Jack wrote about earlier. Stranger that Sam gave Jack his spot, folding himself into the back row with a smile. Usually Sam only sits there as a last resort, ready to complain. It seems his mood was too bright that a curved spine couldn't dull its shine. A horn cuts across his thoughts, and Jack spies Dean with his hand against the wheel.

“Come on!” he says, “Get in! We need you to pick the music!”

“I thought only the driver picks the music?”

“Nope. Today the driver shuts his piehole.”

Sam chuckles from the backseat. “Sure you can follow through on that promise, Dean?”

“You shut _ your _ piehole, Sammy!”

Jack rolls his eyes at the bickering, a somewhat normal element to this already strange plot. He stuffs his suspicions into the back of his mind and chooses to enjoy the time with his family. A picnic might be odd, but Jack doesn’t rule out coincidences. He shakily reminds himself that as he picks out a cassette from the box at his feet and shoves it into the player.

From there any doubt about the day’s plans fly out the open window as the Impala speeds down the highway. Jack lets the waves of music and conversation roll over him, setting his body at peace. The lingering emptiness from his battle with Michael all but nearly vanishes as the warmth from his family fills him fully. Each time Dean and Sam snipe at each other in brotherly affection, or Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder when his eyes stay off the road longer than they should; even when Jack wins ‘I Spy’ by picking the tiniest object imaginable and gets three sets of grumbled congratulations reminds him that even if it might be tiny, a fraction of his soul grows from the speck left. It might not ever return to its full glory, still he will cling to that string of humanity with all his strength.

Almost three hours into their trip Dean pulls off the highway. “We’re almost there,” he tells them, “Hope you’re ready!”

“Where are we going?”

“There’s this lake nearby,” Sam says, “It’s really beautiful… usually you’d see a whole bunch of people there, but -”

“Not this time of year,” Dean cuts him off, “And especially not on a _ Tuesday _. We’re gonna have it all to ourselves!”

“Really?”

“Maybe we can skip rocks,” Castiel suggests to him, “It’s a very simple activity… but I find the act is such a profound metaphor for life. That even the lightest of touches can have a ripple effect which -”

“Cram it philosophy major,” Dean says, turning the key, “We’re here.”

He parks the car in a vast, empty parking lot close the the lake’s entrance. Dean wastes no time in hopping out and darting off to find a place to set up. Castiel and Sam casually follow him, making sure they had all they needed before leaving the Impala. Jack stays a step or two behind them, the parts of his brain he shut off earlier returning to life.

When he wrote his story, they picnicked nearby a lake.

And now… they were about to picnic at a nearby lake.

“Coincidences…” he whispers, “More and more coincidences…”

“What was that Jack?”

Sam glances at him, a crease in his brow that hadn't marred his face in weeks. Shaking his head, Jack slips a friendly mask on. “Nothing,” he assures Sam, jogging up to them, “Just… I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” he says, expressions smoothing once more, eyes settling into his usual hazy amber. “Can’t wait to eat.”

“Well then why don’t you three pick up the pace already!”

Dean waves to them from a grassy knoll not far from the lake’s waters. Castiel and Sam exchange fond stares and roll their eyes in synchronicity. Then, in tandem, they slow their stroll to a glacial pace. Jack nearly trips in shock.

“Okay neither of you are funny,” Dean tells them, fighting back a smile, “..._assholes_.”

They snicker, returning to a more normal pace to reach Dean. Castiel lays out the blanket while Sam hands the food off to Dean for him to distribute. Working together as a team - like a _ family _ \- the four manage to sit together and share a meal free from the bloody history of ancient walls.

When writing Jack picked the first idea that came to mind. Experiencing it, though, Jack didn't truly realize how much his fathers needed a day like this. While his body hasn't required food for a while he ate everything handed to him. From the small bowl of salad Sam served to the piece of pie Dean cut. No matter what he should have tasted, it was all sweet to him.

And at no point did any of them discuss dour subjects like Michael, monsters, or death. Dean made jokes and, whether funny or not, Dean laughed so wildly he nearly choked at one point. He told stories of past misadventures that brought a smiling Sam into the conversation, shaking his head and correcting his brother's mistakes with a cool, level-headed voice. Sam stretched languidly on the blanket, looking so at peace with the world Jack leaned in close to make sure the taller man wasn't asleep. He stayed awake, calmness almost trancelike. Castiel watched Dean animatedly take part in a one-sided conversation. During Dean's lulls, however, Castiel tossed in his own observations and thoughts. Making note of their surroundings and remarking on the beauty of the lake.

“This was a wonderful location you found, Dean,” Castiel says, plucking a tiny daisy from where it grew on the ground. He twirls it between his thumb and finger before offering it to the other man. “A lovely place to dine.”

Dean flushes, snatching the daisy from Castiel’s hand. ‘S’just a spot Cas but… thanks.” Jack doesn't see what he did with the daisy, instead drawn to Sam speaking up and asking Castiel a question about any parts of Earth he's been too that would make their spot look like they stopped off the side of the highway. Castiel laughed off Sam's question, saying that if they had ate by a highway it would still be beautiful. Because they were there, together. Exchanging soft looks, the brothers agreed.

Feast concluded, Jack reclines onto the soft blanket. Stomach too full for even his grace to fix. He closes his eyes, relishing in the soft sunlight dappling his skin. Sleep, like food, isn't a necessity for him anymore since absorbing Michael’s grace. From the excitement of having his powers returned to the worry about his family, to what it meant, and then the discovery of his new hobby, he hadn’t even attempted to feign unconsciousness. Now seems the perfect time - away from everything besides what was _important_ \- to allow his eyes to slip shut.

Quite some time later he’s roused from his wakeful rest by Dean. “Hey,” Dean starts, “did you fall asleep?”

“No,” Jack says, “Just closed my eyes.”

“Good.”

Jack squints as he takes in his surroundings. The sky sits in a mix of blue, orange, and mottled purple, and neither Sam nor Castiel were on the blanket. “Where are the others?”

“Down by the lake,” he tells him, “We were gonna watch the sunset… you in?”

The word _ sunset _ struck a chord inside Jack, like he had seen or heard it earlier. Used in a very similar context. “...Of course.”

“Good!” Dean stands, racing away, “We don’t have all day - _ literally _ !” Jack watches him go, acting like a four-year old instead of the forty-year old he grew to know. Picking himself up, Jack walks after him like _ he _ is the parent to Dean’s kid-like attitude.

By the time he catches up to Dean, his father balances on one foot while tugging off his boot. “What are you doing?” Jack asks.

“Toes in the sand, Jack,” Dean says, “Toes in the sand.” Balling up his socks and letting them drop, Dean hops his way over to where Sam and Castiel stand on the lake’s shore.

Jack glances down at where Dean let his shoes lie, finding the others’ there as well. The scene strikingly resembles something Jack saw once before, but he knows that at no point did the Winchesters get to have this. They talked about it near constantly, in a way that Jack assumed they would never follow through on. Except now they have.

Almost exactly like how his story ended.

“Coincidences…” Jack says again, jaw hanging in awe.

“Jack?” Castiel asks, “Are you okay?”

He shakes from his shock, finding three pairs of eyes looking at him in worry, pupils striking and fully focused on him. Like he was a lighthouse fixed on the shore. The sight of their troubled expressions has him shaking off the comparisons. He meets each stare with a smile. "Yes," he says, "I am."

“Good," Castiel nods, blinking away the conversational stumble. "Now come enjoy this with us.”

Jack nods, kneeling down to untie his shoes. In the time it takes him to undo the first lace, Jack brushes off any similarities between today and his stories. After the second lace untangles, Jack reassures himself that stranger things have happened and coincidences are nothing to be suspicious of. As he stands alongside his fathers, watching the way the sunlight reflects multitudes of colors off the lake and around them, Jack tells himself that his family is happy.

And why should Winchesters being happy arouse suspicion?

* * *

Jack finishes typing up his latest story when he realizes there are no such thing as coincidences for Winchesters.

The burn barely began to fade when Dean walks into the kitchen, disturbing him. Jack quickly shut his laptop, unwilling to let the other man see what he worked on. Mainly because of the shift in his storytelling focus.

He blames it on the other authors. Before he never would have believed there was anything more but after reading one story… then the next… and sifting through passionate discourse giving logical evidence to the fact, Jack couldn’t deny it.

His fathers are in love. And Jack started writing this change in relationships into his stories. Which is why he would _literally_ implode if either Dean or Castiel knew what he wrote about. Michael's archangel grace would suck his body into its core and then wipe away any traces of the Bunker from existence. Already he can feel it clawing at his lungs.

Thankfully Dean seems more preoccupied with the fridge than with him. If he stays quiet, Jack could slip out of the room without the other man being any wiser. Getting up, he tucks his laptop under his arm and creeps over to the entryway. His gaze locked on Dean, he makes sure his father stays with his ass in the air until he rounds the corner.

What he doesn’t account for is Castiel waiting in the shadows of the other door. Jack slams into him, dropping his laptop. “Shit,” he hisses, “I… I didn’t mean… Cas…?”

Castiel looks beyond him, over towards where Dean still has his head buried in the fridge. Pushing past Jack, he strides over to the counter and clears his throat. Dean stops wiggling and glances behind him. He pulls himself away and smiles. “Howdy there, Cas,” he says, “you like what you see?”

Castiel flushes, pulling at his collar. “Sorry to disturb you, Dean, I was sent to find you and… what are you doing?”

Dean shrugs, “Was thinking about making a midnight snack.”

Jack frowns, checking the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s a quarter past four.

Closing the fridge, Dean saunters over to Castiel. His hand hovers near the crook of his elbow, fingers twitching like they do when he holds his gun.“Why did you need to ‘_find_’ me?”

“I… I don’t remember,” Castiel confesses, stiffening the closer Dean moves. He darts his eyes down to search Dean’s hands. “You said you wanted a snack? Did you change your mind?”

“No, I'm just suddenly hungry for something else. Something that can't be found in the fridge.”

“...What is it?”

"Something _really_ delicious... a little fuzzy, and feels so good to hold...” He raises his hands, cupping them around Castiel’s face, “See what I mean…?”

“Dean? What are… what are you trying to imply?”

“Do I gotta spell it out for ya? You’re the damn snack, Cas.”

“Oh…” Castiel licks his lips, a sight Jack wishes he wasn’t privy, too. He’s rooted to the floor, trapped as the audience for his fathers’ strange flirtatious ritual. Watching it play like a scene from one of the many romantic comedies Dean pretends he doesn’t collect on his Netflix queue. “What do I… what do I taste like?”

“Sweet, Cas,” Dean whispers, dropping a light kiss to the other man’s lips, “I’ve thought about this for a long time and… and I figured you’d be sweet.”

“Am I?”

“The sweetest. Sweeter than anything I’ve ever ate. Sweeter than _ pie _.”

Castiel smirks. “High praise. Why don’t you dive in for more?”

“You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that,” Dean sighs, kissing him. “God, Cas, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” Castiel’s hands slide up to grip Dean’s hips, tugging him closer and pressing Dean against him. “I can’t believe we’ve never… we should have been doing this ages ago…”

“It don’t matter, Cas,” Dean tells him, “we’re here now… that’s all that counts.” They quiet and continue their embrace, mouths hungry for each other.

Jack frowns at the sight, perplexed. He repeats their confessions to himself, wondering why they would try and recreate their union. They already told each other of their feelings the day prior. In the library, with him and Sam as witnesses. Dean and Castiel stormed in while they organized the books, yelling over each other. The fight was baseless from what Jack could tell, since their lives were relatively quiet these past few months. But they snarled and pushed until finally Castiel had Dean pressed against a shelf, kissing him. After that they couldn't keep their eyes off each other.

Jack, a little terrified by their passion, hoped he could find some camaraderie with Sam. He offered none. Sam watched them make out with a fond smile on his face. He shook his head, chuckling, “About damn time…”

Which brings him to the present, where Dean and Castiel solidify their feelings once more through kisses. Castiel crowds Dean against the counter, both growing bolder and louder. They still haven’t realized Jack watches them, tearing at their clothes as if inside their bedroom and not the communal kitchen.

“Cas,” Dean moans as Castiel helps him remove his shirt, “Oh… I love you, _angle_.”

“Angle?” Jack whispers, confusion stacking up like a mountain. But then the clouds part within, and clarity shines down from above. He gasps, the full-body breath freeing him from his paralysis. Able to move again Jack flees the kitchen and flies to his room. He slams his door, locking it. Jumping onto his bed, Jack opens his laptop and returns to the story he finished writing seconds ago. Retracing his steps, he finds the exact strip of dialogue needed.

_ “Oh… I love you, angle _.”

Dean walked in as Jack edited, interrupting his proofreading right there. Backtracking, Jack finds that the spelling mistake wasn’t the only piece lifted from his writing. The entirety of what happened in the kitchen was re-enacted by his dads, playing out like it were a script.

“This is bad, Felix,” Jack says to his pet, “Really, really bad…” A sense of dread pokes at his ribs like the cold tip of an angel blade. Pulling up his works page, Jack clicks on his most recent published piece and realizes Dean and Castiel confessed the other day exactly how Jack wrote it, too. Fighting over how both throw themselves into danger, careless about their own health and well-being. “No wonder their argument made no sense…”

The more Jack dug through his stories, the easier it became to see the connecting dots. Every time he wrote a story, his fathers would follow along - going as far back to the time Jack stumbled upon Sam in the library.

He had been unknowingly controlling his family through his writings. Jack pulled their strings where he wanted them to go, turning them into mere puppets.

“How? It makes no sense… they’re supposed to be non-canonical…” His frustration bubbles up and presses against his head, creating a dull ache. Luckily, the sensation reminds him of another pain that flares up whenever he wrote. “Of course,” Jack sighs, “Those must have been my powers…”

Jack pounds his fist to his forehead, cursing himself. Had it truly been too long since he had his powers that he had forgotten what it felt like? Because of him, his family unknowingly lost their free will. Became the very characters people thought they were.

“No… no,” Jack starts, “Maybe I’m… maybe it isn’t me?” The argument sound weak to him, especially against the insurmountable evidence. However a small part of him can’t give up the hope that his family found their way to happiness on their own.

It all happened by accident, meaning that there could still be a chance Jack was using his powers in a different way. Maybe instead of controlling the present Jack predicted the future. There is no justifiable proof Jack controls his fathers through his keyboard. That the choices he made in storytelling affected the plot in real life. If he went to the others now he could blow up their peace for no reason and bring about a new sense of worry and unease that would only suffocate Jack.

“A test,” Jack decides, “That’s what I’ll do… And I know exactly how to go about it.”

* * *

He sits in the kitchen excited and fearful for what’s about to unfold. His laptop rests in front of him, open, the filled Word document the only thing open on the screen. Jack waits for the others to wake up, a part of him hoping he'll see his tale play out.

Knowing that if his powers were controlling the lives of his family, Jack wanted to cushion the blow for himself. So he decided to write the most _insane_ story ever. One that would prove without doubt Jack played God. He spent all night typing the story – adding in whatever crazy idea flittered into his mind. Then, when finished, Jack flew to different stores and grabbed a few necessary props for morning. After laying them outside the doors of his fathers' rooms, Jack returned to the setting of his fiction.

Sam walks in first with his face hidden behind the porn magazine Jack stole from an all-hours gas station. He joins Jack at the table without noticing he was there. His eyes scan the page thoroughly before flipping over to the next one, a lecherous grin on his face.

Jack giggles, squirming in his seat. “Good morning, Sam.”

“Hi Jack,” Sam says, glancing up for a brief second, “You are great and amazing, have I told you that yet?”

“No you have not.”

“Well I should do it more often. You are the best hunter, so much smarter than me, and next time we go on a hunt… you should take point.”

Jack preens at the compliments. Knowing they were his own words doesn’t lessen the feeling it evokes. It also aids the twisting of his stomach as he understands exactly what hearing Sam say that means. “I’ll be happy to lead our next hunt.”

Sam nods, returning to his porn. A loud rumble disrupts his reading, and he frowns at his stomach. “I am hungry,” he announces, slapping the magazine open on the table.

“Maybe you should make something then?” Jack suggests, “An omelet? Cereal… fruit salad –“

“Fruit?” Sam scoffs, laughing, “Please, Jack, I need some _ meat _ – no homosexuality intended.” Standing, Sam moves over towards the fridge and opens it. He finds the package of bacon easily, Jack moving it to the center. Ripping it open, Sam grabs a pan and slaps a few strips onto it.

Sam cooks all the bacon in the extra large pack, mouth watering so much Jack sees him wipe away drool every few minutes or so. Inbetween cooking Sam would pepper in a few more nice words Jack’s way. At one point he was so distracted showering Jack with praise very obvious smoke poured out from the pan.

Jack didn’t realize how long his monologue for Sam was and his tallest father paid for it with four strips of charcoaled bacon. Because he was under the power of Jack’s writing, Sam added it to the growing pile of food he made for himself with no hesitation. “Looks delicious.”

As the last of the bacon sizzled Dean finally made his appearance. He skips into the room beaming, “Good morning Jack… Bitch.”

Sam nods lazily. “Jerk.”

“Dean,” Jack greets, eyeing his brightly colored hands, “What did you do to your nails?”

Dean turns to him, smile growing surprisingly larger than it already was. “Thank you for noticing Jack,” he says, “You are so observant. I _ painted _ them.” He wiggles his fingers, showing off the sparkly pink. “Did the same for my toes as well.” Standing on one foot, he holds the other aloft so Jack can see the neon pink there, too. “Do you think they look pretty and cool?”

Jack swallows a chuckle. “Of course.”

“That is great, Jack,” Dean sighs, “You are the coolest person in the whole universe! There is no one more awesome than you.” He moves to sit, but notices the open magazine where Sam left it. Dean curdles with disgust at the naked woman’s suggestive pose. “Gross! Who left this here? We eat here!”

“Calm down, Dean-jerk, it is just vagina,” Sam says, plopping his tray of bacon next to his porn with a clatter.

Dean’s eyes jump from the magazine to the food, a strangled cry lodged in his throat. “Sammy-bitch, is that… bacon?”

Without looking away from his porn, Sam chews on one of the burnt pieces. “Yes, you want some?”

“No!” Dean shrieks, choking back a sob. He blinks past the tears, letting them fall without care. “Do you not know meat is _ murder_, bitch?”

“It is _ delicious_, jerk.”

“Think of all the animals that died because you wanted to chew on their flesh!”

“Tasty flesh,” Sam mutters, chewing obnoxiously, “delicious… you should really try some.” Waving the bacon towards his brother causes Dean to jump backwards in panic.

“Yucky!” Dean hisses, “I think I am going to faint…”

Dean stumbles to lean against the wall, one hand pressed against his mouth as if to prevent vomit. Jack ignores his theatrics; already sure Dean won’t be doing any of that. Instead he focuses on the entryway where the third player should be coming in at any moment.

The rasp and clacking of wheels on the Bunker floor precedes Castiel as he rolls in on a skateboard. “Yo dudes,” he says, skidding to a halt by the island, “What is the haps?” His outfit is in complete disarray as Jack wrote. White button-down rumpled and untucked, his tie tight around his head instead of his neck. There’s no sign of the suit jacket underneath it and the trench coat’s sleeves have been pushed up as far as they can exposing his tanned arms.

“Jack,” Castiel winks and shoots an imaginary gun at him, “You are the best son in the world and deserve all the cookie flavored cereal!”

Dean finally notices Castiel and leaps over to him. “Cas!”

Castiel catches him, arms tight around his waist. “Dean.”

“Cas…”

“Dean…”

“Cas…” Dean leans in closer, their noses bumping.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, “Then Castiel swallows past the lump in his throat as he truly sees how beautiful Dean’s green eyes are, like emeralds shining in a mine.”

Jack frowns, turning to his writing. He bites his lip, realizing the extra quotation marks added in too late. It didn’t diminish his enjoyment, only compounding it.

“I love you, Cas,” Dean whispers, “I never believed in angels or heaven until I met you… I want you to do the _ sex _ to me.”

Castiel waits a long beat before saying, “Radical.” Then they kiss... _ horrifically _. Jack’s gaze widens in terror watching two of his father figures try and devour each other. While writing the kiss, Jack didn't think about what the scene might look like. Too busy adding details he knew made no sense when paired with kissing. At one point Dean’s tongue licked along Castiel’s jaw line before the other man’s tongue found it and they wrestled once more.

Sam looks at them only in mild amusement. “Get a room!” he shouts between bites of bacon.

They break from their embrace, Dean pouting at Sam. “Let us go somewhere we can be alone,” Dean says, “maybe out in nature… we can walk among the trees and hold hands and you can watch me do some yoga because I am _ very flexible _.”

“…Will there be little honeybee-dudes?”

“Yes.”

Castiel grins, “Sweet like honey.”

Dean grabs Castiel’s hand and pulls him away, skateboard forgotten. “We should go now,” he says, other hand digging into his pants pocket, “Before I forget though, Jack I want you to have this.” He pulls his car keys out and tosses them Jack’s way.

“Your car?”

“It was my dad’s, and I think you should have it since you are my son,” he tells him, “I trust you with her.”

Jack holds onto the keys tightly, eyes misting over the fabricated moment. “Thank you, Dean," he whispers, truly touched by the false gesture.

“Dude come on,” Castiel whines, tugging on Dean’s hand, “all those bees!”

“I love you so much.”

“And I really dig you, dude.” They disappear out the door.

Jack lets the smile slowly shrink across his face, aware that nothing has derailed from the script he wrote. With only a few more lines left, Jack gives Sam his attention as he polishes off the last of the bacon. “So,” he clears his throat, “what do you plan on doing today, Sam?”

“Not much,” Sam shrugs, “There is a stack more of these waiting for me –“ he waves the magazine – “and I might go watch a few videos, too, so I can jerk it.”

“Sounds like you’ll have your hands full.”

“If I were any braver I would go out and find myself a girl to have the sex with,” Sam sighs, “But I am a lowly moose… not as good-looking or charming as you, Jack.”

Jack comforts Sam blandly. “Sam. Please. You don’t need to –“

“I know how to handle the truth, Jack,” Sam says, “it is okay.” He goes to leave, pausing in front of the cabinets. “This will help,” he tells Jack, pulling a full bottle of whiskey out. “See you later, Jack.”

Finally alone, Jack pushes his laptop away and leans on his arms. Some laughter, trapped in his chest, bubbles up and bursts forward. It breaks the silence, sounding panicked to Jack's ears. Tears fall down his eyes as the giggles slowly turn into gasps as the thought of what will happen when Sam, Dean, and Castiel find out about his writing. If they will return to how they were before he ever wrote his first story in all their misery. Another thought pops in though, worse than before. That the wild story he wrote will seriously affect their lives.

They could be lost in the personas Jack crafted for them. The test, what was meant to solve his problems, could have caused more than he realized. There were noticeable changes in his family every time he wrote, but there's no reason why the outlandish choices Jack made will have long-lasting effects. And if the 'crack' he wrote did seriously change his fathers, then Jack would have to try again with a 'fix-it' story. Taking away more of their freedom.

“Let’s not get ahead of yourself,” he murmurs to himself, “There’s no telling this is doing any harm... well, any _more_ harm.”

Needing a distraction, Jack leaves the kitchen with his laptop and sets up in the main room. Netflix is a few clicks away, and a movie begins playing. Slouching in his chair, Jack begins to whittle away the time.

After the fourth movie, Jack hears a low groan eek its way closer to him. Shutting his laptop, Jack looks at where Sam shuffles in. He rubs at his mussed hair, wincing with each step.

“Hello Sam,” Jack says, “how are you feeling?”

“Too loud, Jack, too…” Sam hisses, squinting at him, “What the hell happened?”

“It seems like you might be experiencing a... _ hangover _.”

“But why?” he asks, “I… I saw the empty bottle along with… some _ other _ things…” Sam doesn’t expand upon what they were and Jack doesn’t press – he knew exactly what he meant. “What happened?”

“Nothing much,” Jack shrugs, “I’ve been here… we were all in the kitchen earlier, you, me, Dean and Cas –“

“_Dean_,” Sam growls, “That… he must have…” Spinning around the room, he searches for his brother. “Where is he?”

The door above them squeaks open, dragging their focus. Sam cries as the sound cuts through his forehead.

Dean and Cas enter in a much worse state. Unknown to Jack, the weather was not the best for a lengthy hike through the woods. Both men are soaked and splattered with mud, tracking it everywhere on their descent.

“Dean,” Sam says through grit teeth, “Dean what did you do?”

“’Bout to ask you the same thing,” Dean starts, gesturing to him and Cas, “because see me and Cas here were talking on the way back and not a lot made sense this morning… look, if you wanted to start another prank war –“

“Me?” Sam scoffs, “Dean, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“…You don’t?”

“No because right now my body’s recovering from over five pounds of bacon and an entire bottle of whiskey – thanks to you.”

“Me? Why’re you blaming me?”

“Bacon and whiskey? And porn! Like those aren’t your favorite things –“

“And you think I woke up with pink nails on my own? You’ve been waiting to get me back for –“

Jack clears his throat, interrupting them. “I… I can explain.”

He glances up to see three sets of curious glares level themselves at Jack. Castiel steps forward, nominating himself leader of his tribunal. “What do you mean?”

“Have you heard of… _ fanfiction _?”

Dean and Sam stiffen at the word, glancing between each other. Sam frowns at him, “We have… how do you know about it?”

It takes an hour for Jack to completely explain what’s been happening the past few months. From how he discovered the Winchester’s canonization through books to the vast community of fans that used their lives as inspiration for other works they created. How Jack joined this community first by reading the unbelievable amount of fiction written about them, then by writing a few of his own. Then about how, coincidentally, after a story was written reality altered enough to fit with what he wrote. There was disbelief, as he expected.

So Jack showed them his first story… then his next… speeding through them until he let them read the Word document he whipped up for today.

Silence crowded around them while the others processed Jack’s work.

Dean sighed, running dirty fingers through his hair. “Great… thought we left all of Chuck’s antics behind when he disappeared for good.”

Jack squinted at him. “Chuck? What does my grandfather have to do with this?”

“Your grandfather was Carver Edlund,” Castiel tells him, “the writer of the Winchester Gospels.”

“Really?” Jack says, “Then those pictures of him at conventions… I expected God to be quite taller.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “We all were.”

“Wait, wait,” Sam says, waving his hands between the group, “So everything that’s been happening the… the good times and…”

“It wasn’t all me,” Jack tells him, “at least I don't think it was. I _hope _it wasn't. I may have started things, but… what happened between stories was left up to you?” He sounds unsure, but it's the only possibility that eases his guilt. Makes him feel less like a dictator playing with his family like pawns on a chessboard and more like a rancher guiding his cattle where they should be. Both not great options, but one slightly above the other.

Dean and Castiel glance at each other and then, after meeting gazes, quickly dart away with rosy cheeks. Jack skews his head to the side at that, curiosity striking against his pity party. However before he can ask any questions, Sam lets loose a slow chuckle.

“Wow,” he whispers, rubbing at his cheeks. “Y’know after I… after I spent that day in the library I… I didn’t think I could do it again. Thought it was a fluke. But I remembered how easy it was before and the next day I… did it again.” His eyes shine with fresh tears as he wipes away the ones already fallen. “Thank you Jack.”

“I… I wanted everything to go back to normal,” he tells them, pressure easing off his chest. “To remember better days when we were all a family and… and when we were happy and I had a soul –“

“From what you’re telling us,” Castiel says, no anger or disappointment in his tone, “there’s no need to worry about that.”

Jack’s face hurts from how wide his smile gets. Then Dean clears his throat and thanks him. “Although I hope this means you’re done using your powers on us?”

“In the future I’ll be more aware of my powers when writing.”

“Good, good… don’t want another situation like how you – uh…” Dean trails off, biting his lip. “Yeah… I have to go shower.” Dean speeds out of the room with an awkward gait.

Castiel sighs. “I think I’ll wash up as well.”

“With Dean?” Sam asks, eyebrows bouncing. They were as lively when Jack described the stories he wrote where Dean and Castiel became a couple. Though he said nothing, it was obvious Sam delighted in the tension crackling between the two.

“…Perhaps I can wait,” Castiel says. Then he stomps away while Sam groans, hands pressed to his temple.

“God, Jack, why’d you have me day drink?”

“They say crack fictions are supposed to be out of character and ridiculous,” Jack tells him, “All that I wrote seemed either wildly different from or were grand exaggerations of what you’d normally do.”

“You couldn’t have tested your powers with any other kind of story?”

“…I wanted to have fun?” he winces, "If I were to be punished, than at least I ended with a big bang?"

Sam rolls his eyes, reaching forward to tousle Jack’s hair. “You’ve got great power there, Jack. Use it responsibly.”

“Like Spiderman?”

“Yes, like Spiderman.”

_Epilogue_

Jack reads over his latest story, searching for any errors and typos. He has trouble, though, since every now and then he loses himself in the story. When Jack catches himself enjoying his work too much, however, he glances over in the mirror. Luckily his eyes hadn’t turned golden at all since his attempt at 'crack'.

Sam finds him there, exasperated and tired. He collapses on the chair across from him.

“What seems to be the problem Sam?”

“It’s Dean and Cas.”

“Ah.” Nothing else needed saying. His fathers have been strange the past couple of days since he revealed his hidden talent to them. While they repeatedly told Jack they forgave him, there was still something that put them at unease. “They’re still not talking to each other?”

“This time they’re not even willing to stand in the same room,” Sam confesses, “Ever since they found out about your meddling…”

“I didn’t mean to make things awkward between them,” Jack tells him, “I… I might have let myself be swayed by a few people on the Internet but their arguments were very compelling.”

“I don’t think that’s _ exactly _ why they’re mad, Jack.”

“Then what is it?”

“Well, I mean Dean and Cas have always had this… _ complex _ relationship,” Sam explains, “And your stories… shook things up.”

“I didn’t make them do things they didn’t want to, did I?”

“No I’m sure they’ve been wanting to do stuff like that for awhile,” he chuckles, “But… Dean thinks Cas hates him.”

“He does?”

“That only he has feelings and he might have overstepped, even though it was your writing. I haven’t talked to Cas yet but I’m sure it’s the same.” Sam tangles his fingers in his hair. “It sucks, not knowing what to do. I mean how do you get two people to talk who are more stubborn than a brick wall?”

An idea springs to mind inside Jack’s head. “I apologize in advance,” he tells Sam, “for what I’m about to do. But I believe this will solve all our problems.”

“What are you…”

Sam watches Jack open another Word document, quickly typing out a short story. In his reflection, Jack sees his eyes glow golden and he smiles. Pressing on the ‘period’ key, he turns to stare at the closest doorway.

Dean skids into view, gaze bouncing around the room.

Across from him Castiel strides in with all the power of Heaven.

They meet in the middle, bodies trembling with nervous energy. Both glance quickly at the others before staring at one another once more.

“Cas,” Dean starts, “I… I’m sorry –“

“What are you sorry for?”

“For all that I said and did when Jack was writing.“

“…That’s not your fault. Those were Jack’s words. Unless…” his hand reaches out to Dean’s, “you never would have said them if –“

“Of course I would’ve said them, Cas,” Dean tells him, “You don’t think I wish I had the balls to tell you how I’m really feeling all the time? To be close to you always and… and all that other stuff.”

Castiel hums, squeezing Dean’s shaking fingers. “Honestly? I never allowed myself to hope my feelings would be returned.”

Dean’s mouth drops open slightly. “Returned?”

“They are, are they?” he asks, “Do you love me?”

“Course I do… and you –“

“Yes.”

Licking his lips, Dean turns back to Sam and Jack. “What do we do now?”

Chuckling, Jack reviews what he has written so far.

_ Dean and Castiel realize how stupid they are being and race to the main room to where Sam and Jack wait. Meeting in the middle, they speak their minds and confess their feelings to one another. _

“You know,” Sam whispers to him, “there’s only one way this can play out.”

Jack smiles. “I couldn’t agree more.”

_ Dean and Castiel kiss, and all four of them live happily ever after. _

_ The End. _

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Let us know by dropping a kudos/comment below!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART MASTERPOST] Making Your Own Canon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759840) by [mattzerella_sticks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks), [Psynatural](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psynatural/pseuds/Psynatural)


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